A Different Perspective
by Dala1
Summary: (L/R) There are two sides to every story . . . especially when the author can't decide which one she likes better.


Dsiclaimer: All of it belongs to Marvel.   
Author's Note: Yeah, it's the exact same story as "A New Perspective", but it's told from Rogue's point of view--there's always two sides to a story, and in this one I felt compelled to tell both. If there are any little inconsistencies between the two fics that have slipped through the cracks, I apologize.  
  
  
  
Me and Logan were the king and queen of the pity party.  
  
We invented it, I swear. Every Friday night we'd huddle together on the couch till dawn, watching late-night TV and feeling sorry for our loveless selves. Well, we weren't really loveless . . . but the woman he was in love with was with another guy, and the object of my affection couldn't even give me a single kiss. So we used each other's company, and the television, as consolation.  
  
Tonight we're both having a particularly bad time. My pseudo-relationship with Remy is coming to an end; I can feel it. And I don't mourn it as much as you would think. Part of me still loves him, and always will, but it just isn't fair to him. He deserves to have a girlfriend whose skin he can touch, someone he can take to parties in elegant dresses, and make sensuous love to for hours on end. Remy is from New Orleans and naturally pretty big on sex. He never makes me feel badly about it, or anything--I do a good enough job of that myself.  
  
Logan has long ago stopped being so obvious about his attraction to Jean Grey: he doesn't stare longingly at her, and he doesn't sigh over her in public. But sometimes when she enters a room, I see his eyes flick over to her, and then to Scott, and for just a second I'll see the shadow of a great sadness. Poor guy. But I still think I have it worse off.  
  
Anyway, tonight I've claimed the remote control and I'm flipping idly through the channels. Remy and I said some pretty nasty things to each other a few hours ago, and I'm pissed off and vengeful and miserable all at once.  
  
"Stop that," he mutters, the first words he's said to me all night.   
  
"There's nothing good on," I reply stubbornly, and continue my mad-dash clicking.  
  
I can tell it really irritates him, but I do it anyway--or maybe because of that. Finally he grabs for it. "Gimme the remote."  
  
I ignore him. "No."  
  
"Marie!" He's the only person who still calls me that. Sometimes, I hate it as a reminder of my past; other times I welcome it for the same reason.  
  
The restlessness builds inside me, and I smile evilly and say, "Come and get it," and dangle it in front of his face.  
  
He growls and jumps on me, flailing for the remote, but I'm good at keep-away. So he changes his attack and starts to tickle me. When I was a kid, I was terrible at being tickled--the smallest bit of it would make me squeal and wriggle away. Which I do now, but it doesn't have much effect with his weight on top of me, and both of us giggling like teenagers.  
  
Then he stops suddenly, and I feel color rise in my cheeks, hoping he can't see it in the darkness. Anyone coming in would think it very suspicious: Logan sprawled across me on the couch, both of us breathing hard.  
  
His eyes stare down into my own, unreadable as always. My arm is flung up behind my head, and he reaches up to take the remote from my fingers, but otherwise doesn't move. His heaviness feels surprisingly good, pressing me down into the cushions.  
  
"I win," he says, his voice utterly calm.  
  
"You cheated," I reply softly. Dammit, this is getting awkward. I realize just then that my knees are drawn up on either side of him, and I can feel his hardness pressing against me--I may be an inexperienced girl, but there's no mistaking that. Still he makes no move to get off me, and I'm not sure I want him to. It's very easy to remember the feelings I had for him when we first met, a little thing of seventeen. But then he left, and when he came back I was with Remy.  
  
"You know," he breathes, "there's one thing I don't get about you and Gumbo."  
  
I snorts. "Just one?" He's never made a secret of his dislike.  
  
Logan chuckles and transfers one arm from my shoulder to my hip. "With me and Jean, there's old Scotty-boy in the way. But for you two, it's not like that--there's nothing in between."  
  
"My skin," I say sharply. Something I never forget.  
  
He shakes his head, still looking into my eyes, which are wide and doe-y by now. Yeah, it's real easy to remember how I mooned over him. "That's not as big a barrier as you make it. If the boy had a creative bone in his body, he'd know that."  
  
Since his own creative bone is making its presence known between my legs, I think my squeak of "Oh?" isn't too bad an answer.  
  
"Yeah," he says, gently stroking my hipbone through the light flannel of my pajamas. "I can think of plenty of ways to get around it."  
  
"Really." I shift slightly under him, and I see his jaw clench in reaction. So he isn't as cool as he pretends to be. Good to know.  
  
"Yeah," he says again, taking my bait and moving slowly against me. I let out a sharp gasp of breath, and lift my hips convulsively. God, the warmth of it . . . "See what I . . . mean?" Now he is definitely less composed.  
  
"Mmm," is all I can get out. An ache begins to form in my lower belly, sharp and dull at the same time. I grip his arms and grind against him, finding a rhythm and breathing more raggedly by the second. His face buried in my hair, he lets out a low groan and forces himself to still.  
  
The pain of desire flares up within me. "What?"  
  
He makes a halfhearted attempt to get up. "We shouldn't, I . . . oh god, Marie . . ." That last part is said as I yank him back down and wrap my legs around his waist. Inexperienced I may be, but not indecisive. If he stops again, I fully intend to kill him.  
  
But he doesn't. The fact that this is Logan, and that he's my friend and not my lover, doesn't make it past the rush of sensations in my core. Fuck it all, I don't care--I just regret that I hadn't thought of this earlier, that Remy hadn't.   
  
Stronger waves begin to pass over me, growing and growing until I'm almost sobbing at their intensity. I hold onto him tight and grit my teeth as it grows and pushes and throbs and pulses--and finally bursts. Then I fall back against the pillow, smacking my head against the arm of the couch. I don't notice. I'm trying very hard to get my breath back, and looking at Logan in amazement. What possessed him to do this, tonight, with me? He never expressed any carnal interest in me before, and surely there are women out there--besides Jean--who know a lot more about sex, and are capable of giving him a lot more pleasure than I am.  
  
He does, though, get substantial pleasure, ending just after I do. He collapses on top of me, trembling, but recovering from orgasm as quickly as an injury. Hauling himself up on his elbows, he gets up before I can say anything, leaving me sprawled there on the sofa, messy and very confused.  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
I return to my own room first, for a change of clothes. I can barely walk straight--what the hell gives him the right to have this affect over me? Then I go to his room. He's in the shower when I creep through his door, so I sit down on the bed to wait. The last thing I want to do is let this go without talking about it--because if I don't, he won't, and it won't be good for whatever kind of fucked-up relationship we have from now on.  
  
Not seeming surprised to see me, he comes out with a towel around his waist. Fleetingly I wish I was telekinetic, just to yank it off--watch yourself, I warn, one roll in the hay and you're turning into a nymphomaniac. I can't help it. Just seeing the way his muscles move under his skin as he pulls on pants and shirt makes me weak with wanting him again.  
  
He sits down beside me, looking at his hands.   
  
"What did we do tonight, Logan?" My words are a whisper, and I hate the vulnerability in my voice. I guess he hears it too, because he turns to look at me with the softest gaze I've ever gotten.   
  
"I don't know," he replies, getting under the covers. "But can I tell you in the morning?" And he pats the space beside him, and holds out his arms.  
  
I consider this offer, and decide to accept it. I curl up against his side and sleep better than I have in years.  
  
A dysfunctional start? Sure. But a start nonetheless.  
  
  



End file.
